


Pulse

by orphan_account



Series: Definitions [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Deathfic, Depressing, Depression, John Watson is a Saint, John saves a life at the cost of his own, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:56:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pulse (puls) n. the regular beating in the arteries, caused by contractions of the heart. See also: ALIVE?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pulse

           “Sherlock Holmes?”

 

**Pulse** (puls) **_n._** the regular beating in the arteries, caused by contractions of the heart. _See also: ALIVE?_

            “It’s about your…partner.”

 

**News** (nooz) **_n._** a report of a recent event, intelligence, or information. _See also: BAD_

 

            “…dreadfully sorry…”

 

**Shock** (shok) **_n._** a sudden or violent disturbance of the mind, emotions, or sensibilities. _See also: DENIAL, ANGER, BARGAINING, DEPRESSION, ACCEPTANCE_

 

            John is too pale. Purpled eyelids had fallen closed. A light brown eyelash clings to a cheekbone.

            He opens his eyes as I touch his hand. I entwine our fingers and hold his hand tightly.

            “Hey, Sherlock. F-funny way the world works, huh?”

            Stomach raw, sour, heart falling and chest empty and throat closing and eyes burning. “You’re an idiot.”

            “D-don’t blame me for always being the good guy,” he weakly chuckles. His fingers squeeze my hand gently. That stupid sweater is draped over his legs.

**Reality** (rē al’ə tē) **_n._** the quality or fact of being real. _See also: REALIZATION_

 

            No more feeling, not anymore. I see the dark red on the stupid sweater, the one doctors had to cut off his body.

            “How come I don’t get a story?”

            “What?”

            “I m-mean, I always sort of knew I wasn’t going to last a long time. Downside to chasing criminals around London. B-but how come I don’t have a story? You’re Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only Consulting Detective.”

            Our hands are clenched together like knots.

**Noose** (nōōs) **_n._** a loop in a rope formed by a slipknot that tightens as the rope is pulled. _See also: HANDS_

 

            No more nighttime cuddling and crappy television. No more arguments over tidiness or word choice or staying at work too late. No more cups of tea made with fluttering kisses.

 

**Absence** (ab’səns) **_n._ ** the state of being away from a place or person. _See also: HOSPITAL BEDS_

 

            “S-stay,” is the only word that can escape my pinhole throat.

            “Tell me a s-story.”

 

            And so I do.

            I tell him the story of John Watson. John Watson who made Sherlock Holmes human. John Watson who gave Sherlock purpose. John Watson who lived with Sherlock Holmes until equality came, until they could hold hands in public and get married and dance at parties and have ~~a normal~~ *an adventurous life. John Watson-Holmes who traveled the world with Sherlock Watson-Holmes. John Watson-Holmes who lived in happiness the rest of his days with his husband and children and grandchildren.

           

**Sleep** (slēp) **_n._** the natural periodic suspension of consciousness during which the body is ~~restored~~ *left behind

 

            I keep talking as John’s hand slackens in mine, as his eyes droop. His chest rises.

            Exhale. Stillness.

            I kiss his forehead one last time. I hold his hand until the doctors pull me away, and then hold the reddened sweater until the world slips away too. 

**Author's Note:**

> The first fic I've made public. I'd love your thoughts and concrit!


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